that had been in her briefcase, she also wanted to talk to him about a vague theory they’d developed during their investigation into Isaac.
Too unsettled to go back to the workshop assignments, she slid off the bed, wandered to the sitting area and plucked a banana out of the silver bowl. Tapping it against her palm, she moved to the wall of windows. Ice hazed the glass and marred her view of what she’d learned was the priciest real estate in Oklahoma City. Frowning, she conjured up the mugger’s voice.
Give it up, bitch. The voice, the words didn’t fit Isaac. From all witnesses’ accounts, “Gentleman Jim” had conducted himself in a mild, meek manner when he approached each intended victim who worked the dimly lit streets of Dallas’s red-light district. His demeanor had stayed the same after his arrest—in all her dealings with Isaac, Paige had never heard him utter a curse or say anything crude. Even his promises to exact revenge against her had been delivered in formal, polite tones.
One thing about it, she thought, getting mugged had put a cap on the day.
She was just about to peel the banana when the phone on the nightstand rang. Halfway expecting it to be someone from the hotel’s laundry calling to tell her they couldn’t remove all the stains from her cashmere coat, she walked over to the phone by the bed and grabbed the receiver. “Hello?”
“You said you were going to give me a break.”
Nate McCall. “That’s correct, Sergeant.”
“Then why drop my name to the patrol cop who took your mugging report?”
Paige, caught off guard by the question, blinked. “He asked me if I’d gotten on anyone’s bad side. Your name popped into my head.”
Silence.
She tucked the phone between her shoulder and cheek and began peeling the banana. “What’s the deal, McCall? It’s not like I told Sergeant Vawter I thought you were the creep who mugged me.”
“Yeah, he made that clear.” Paige heard the rattle of dishes and hum of conversation in the background. “Do you think the mugger is the escaped shrink you mentioned this morning?”
Surprised by McCall’s concerned tone, she furrowed her forehead. This was more than a polite inquiry, he seemed worried about her. “My instincts say no.” She paused. “Why do you ask?”
“Just a quirk on my part, Carmichael. Let’s say I have this thing about escaped serial killers showing up in my city. And even though you’ve got a nasty streak, I don’t like the idea of you getting roughed up on my turf.”
My city. My turf. Paige had felt the same when she carried a badge—she didn’t like bad things happening in her territory. Cops were innately possessive about that. And although she knew McCall’s concern wasn’t personal, she felt another tug of guilt over how she’d targeted him during the workshop.
“I appreciate you taking the time to do a follow-up, Sergeant. That’s beyond the call of duty.”
“Shows that even weasels are dedicated.”
“Good point.” Paige couldn’t help but smile. “So maybe I’ll concede you’re not a total weasel,” she added, then took a bite of the banana.
Before she even swallowed, a sickening sensation hit her. She spit out the bite. “Oh, God!”
“What? What’s the—”
She dropped the phone and the banana. The receiver clattered against the edge of the nightstand before landing on the floor. Sweat had broken out on her palms, beaded across her forehead. Already she felt the tightness in her throat as the tissues began to swell. In seconds her breathing plunged from shallow to labored.
She could hear McCall shouting her name while she told herself to stay calm. Don’t panic. Don’t panic. The litany looped through her head even as thick, sticky cobwebs settled over her brain. She’d had allergic reactions before. She had survived them.
No reason she couldn’t survive this one.
Weaving like a drunk, she made her way around the bed. She stumbled against the mattress, knocking the stack of assignment sheets onto the floor.
By the time she reached the bureau where she’d left her red suede purse, her hands were shaking uncontrollably. Using her forearm, she swept her purse onto the floor, dropped to her knees and dumped out the contents amid the scattered papers.
Her throat tightened as her air passage narrowed. Her breathing transformed into painful gasps. A headache barged down on her like a freight train. Pinpricks needled over her flesh; she was shuddering, sweating.
Banana, she thought hazily. Not right. Not right. She was allergic to peanuts, not bananas. She had eaten bananas all her life. Tons of bananas. Hundreds.
Dizziness swirled up from the ground. Panic surged through her as she clawed at the contents of her purse, shoving aside her billfold, her sunglasses case, her Palm Pilot. Her backup meds were in her stolen briefcase, but she always kept a supply in her purse. They had to be here. Had to be.
Finally—finally!—she found the metal case that held the syringes preloaded with epinephrine. She fumbled one out, jerked its safety cap off with her teeth. Setting her jaw, she stabbed the needle into her right thigh.
Her lungs heaved. She struggled to drag air past her constricted throat. You’ll be fine, she told herself. Just fine. The shot would buy her enough time to get to the E.R.
She had to get to the E.R.
Fighting to remain lucid, knowing her legs would never support her, she crawled around the bed. Her vision doubled, tripled; she followed McCall’s shouts, flailing a hand for the receiver, found it.
“Carmichael? What the hell’s going on? Carmich—”
“Ambulance.” She forced out the word between gasps. “Call…ambulance.”
Chapter 3
The E.R. doctor jotted a note on a clipboard, set it aside, then gave Paige a scrutinizing look. “You’re still pale. But your breathing is good and your heartbeat’s back to normal.”
“I feel fine now.” Fully dressed again and sitting upright with her legs dangling off the gurney, she sent the young intern a hopeful look. “You’re releasing me, right?”
Without comment, he hooked a finger under her chin and nudged her head from side to side. “No swelling in your face now, except around the bruise on your right cheek.” His forehead furrowed. “The nurse said you got mugged?”
“I’ve had a lousy day.”
“Sounds like it.” He released her chin. “It would have been lousier if you’d swallowed that bite of banana.”
A low whisper of suspicion sounded in the back of her brain. “I still can’t believe I had a reaction to a banana. I’ve eaten them all my life with no problem.” She shoved a hand through her hair. “The way I had to fight to breathe, the hives, the headache, the dizziness. Everything felt like the reaction I have to peanuts.”
“A person can develop a sudden allergy to a food they’ve never had a problem eating. That might be what happened.”
Having a vague memory of her own allergist telling her the same thing, Paige studied the intern. His wiry brown hair needed serious combing. His eyes were bloodshot. The cast of his skin was a little too close a match to his pale green hospital scrubs. Looks aside, the guy sounded like he knew what he was talking about.
“This type of allergic reaction can encompass more than food,” he added. “Like sex.”
“What?”
“When you have intercourse, does your partner wear a condom?”
Paige blinked. “Excuse me?”
Mouth twitching, he held up a hand. “Sorry, I tend to get ahead